


A Decent Cup of Tea

by Lexigent



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexigent/pseuds/Lexigent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt "boots, tea, wound".</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Decent Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kizzia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzia/gifts).



It was a hot day in August in the year 19-- and I had been out exploring the Sussex countryside to leave my companion to his own devices for a little while. There can be no doubt that I had great affection for the man and had learn to bear his idiosyncrasies well over the course of our association, the advantage of country life was that living in each other's pockets at all times was not as much of a necessity than in the city. We were still quite new to the cottage in those days, and wandering the hills was enough of a novelty after decades of London life that I tried to take advantage of it when I could. Upon my return, I heard Holmes calling from inside our cottage, "Watson, we have something to celebrate."

This statement caused me some puzzlement. The only occasion in our lives that we still celebrated was the anniversary of our first meeting, but that had taken place in January. It was always joyous to me to mark a day that reminded us of that first encounter and to celebrate our continued devotion to one another. We had both stopped marking our birthdays years ago, even before we had moved to Sussex.

"And what might be the joyous occasion?" I enquired nonetheless. He had been busying himself at the beehive in our back garden while I was reading. In his right, he triumphantly held a jar filled with something the colour of rich amber.

"The first honey from my bees."

I smiled. Holmes had taken up the study of bees in his retirement because, as he said, the insects offered invaluable insights into the organisation of society. I could not possibly glean what a man who had lived among the best and the worst of the Empire for most of his life might have to learn from invertebrates. Their study, nonetheless, seemed to alleviate his black moods and boredom better than opiates had ever been able to, and so I had no reasons to object. He even proclaimed that the stings he got during his first, clumsier attempts at observing them kept rheumatic fever at bay. For my own part, I thought it better to put up with occasional pain from that old wound in cold weather than to let myself get bitten voluntarily by the insects.

"We can have it on crumpets for tea," I suggested eagerly. Holmes either had not heard me or had chosen to ignore the remark. He disappeared into the kitchen and I finished taking off my boots and outdoor clothes. Minutes later, he emerged, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and two cups which he set on the small table in our garden. I followed him outside.

He poured our cups and gestured. He had already added milk into the pot, I noted - unusual for him, but not unheard of - and I lifted my cup to my lips and drank.

It would be unworthy to call it a cup of tea. It had the familiar, slightly bitter, flavour of the tea leaves, but there were also cinnamon, cardamom, and other Oriental spices. It was not unlike the spiced tea called chai that I had encountered in the Colonies in Her Majesty's service, but underneath, there was the sweetness of our own bees' honey, the aromas of the Sussex countryside. All were perfectly complemented by the small amount of milk that helped the palate balance all the flavours.

A flash of memory came back to me. Waking up from a nightmare of pain and induced slumber to the taste of sweetened chai from a metal mug. My orderly helping me to steady it, his fingers on top of mine a focus in my otherwise shattered world.

The other wound I sustained, not as a soldier this time, but while helping Holmes. Holmes' hands around me, the tear of fabric as he sought desperate confirmation that my wound was as superficial as I had said.

Opening a window in the middle of the night and breathing in the fragrance of the meadows around our cottage for a moment before settling down beside Holmes on the bed.

When I set the cup down, there was a lump in my throat. Holmes regarded me with a note of genuine concern in his features.

"Are you quite all right, old fellow?"

"Yes," I managed, and pulled him over to kiss him. He tasted of honey and tobacco, sweetness and danger, and responded to the kiss with enthusiasm.

When we broke the kiss and I opened my eyes, something in his features seemed to have shifted, or maybe it was a trick of the light. Sometimes, I thought, all you had to do was look at something familiar from an unusual angle to appreciate it the more. Everything that had happened to us, good and bad, everything we had done - I had done - had led me to this moment, to the first taste of the honey from Holmes' bees and the promise of more sweetness in the future.

He covered my hand with his in a gesture of silent understanding and we sat beside each other, watching the horizon.


End file.
